


8 Half Truths

by Sunfreckle



Series: Modern Means Less Miserable [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-04-04 05:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: Short pieces directly connected to the Jehanparnasse story 16 Lies and Counting, that couldn't be part of the main work because I decided to stick with Montparnasse's POV only.





	1. Jehan can be content with just this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan's POV
> 
> Takes place soon after chapter 1 of 16 Lies.
> 
> (A rough draft of this was posted on my tumblr quite a while ago, if it sounds familiar that might be why.)

Jehan isn’t quite sure, but someone possibly just said their name. They blink the fog from their mind and raise their head, looking straight into the amused face of Grantaire, who is sitting opposite them.

“What’s up with you?” he asks. “You’ve been drifting in and out all afternoon.”

“Have I?” Jehan blushes. “I’m sorry.” They know they don’t have to apologize. Not to Grantaire. But for some reason these feel like guilty daydreams.

“Hey, you drift all you want,” Grantaire quips, clicking shut the pocket knife he’s been carving patterns in his pallet side-table with. “I’m curious where you’re going though.”

Jehan hesitates. They want to tell him. They want to tell him so  _badly_. They want to tell the whole world. But sometimes things are so much better as secrets. More beautiful and more perfect, because they’re yours alone.

“I met someone the other day,” they say quietly.

“ _Met_  someone,” Grantaire says, grin clearly audible in his voice. “That sounds solemn. Who did you meet?”

No, they’re not going to give up his name. Jehan wants to keep his name to themself. At least for now. If only because part of them is still convinced they only learned his name by accident. That it was given to them by mistake, in an unguarded moment never meant to occur. They smile at Grantaire. “Someone  _beautiful_.”

“Ah,” Grantaire sighs dramatically. “But you see beauty in everything.”

“That’s because there is,” Jehan says, sparing one earnest thought for the world in general before returning eagerly to the image in their mind. “But he wasn’t just beautiful.”

“Wasn’t he?” Grantaire teases amusedly. “Tell me, what kind of beauty are we talking about? Did you find a modern-day Narcissus? Don’t tell me you found an actual Hylas!”

Jehan laughs. They know Grantaire is only joking, but he still knows far too many names. Jehan only remembers the stories, not the names. “No,” they say and they try to find words good enough to be honest and vague enough to be safe. “He- He was sharp and dark and brilliant and…he came out of nowhere and he picked a lock for me and I’ll never see him again-” Jehan’s voice trails off. They’ll never see him again.

Every single one of their other friends would have asked why on earth they needed a lock picked. Grantaire doesn’t. He just looks at them with a faint smile and says: “That sounds like quite the introduction.”

“It was,” Jehan sighs. A brilliant first meeting. And last meeting. Ever. They would be happy to sink back into silence again, but by now they have Grantaire’s full attention and his eyes are twinkling.

“So Jehan was swept off their feet by a nameless stranger,” he quips.

 _Montparnasse_ , Jehan thinks, not nameless. But they don’t correct him. Instead, they say: “I know it’s silly. But it lingers, the memory.”

The most extraordinary thing about it is that Jehan remembers _themself_ as well. Their surprise when he appeared out of nowhere, putting their anger on hold for a moment. The rush, the triumph, the excitement, and all of it with those green eyes watching them. They remember it all and it’s all full of the sweeping feelings of spur-of-the-moment decisions and words spoken without even stopping to think. Jehan blushes now, remembering how they _didn’t_ blush then. They gave him their rose and he had looked so surprised…

Grantaire has gotten to his feet and is rummaging around in the mess covering his floors. When he returns he has retrieved a notepad and pen from a pile of nondescript items. He drops them into Jehan’s lap.

“Then write it out of your mind,” he says, modulating his voice just a little for the sake of dramatics. “Turn the features into paper and ink, twist the feelings into words. Write until you’ve starved the memory away.”

Jehan looks up at him with a smile. “That was very pretty, perhaps you should write it.”

“Nah,” Grantaire shakes his head. “That was all the poetry I had in me today.” He lets himself fall down onto the couch again.

“I’m not sure if he’d like me writing about him,” Jehan says, touching the pen to their lips.

Grantaire hums and stretches himself out comfortably across the whole of the couch. “Then pretend you’re writing about some other clever thief. Autolycus, thief of thieves, write me something about him!” He points at them accusingly. “You haven’t written me anything classical in  _ages_ , Jehan Prouvaire.

“I shall write you another about Apollo,” Jehan teases. They’re not going to write about  _him_ for Grantaire. Not for anyone. Not even under another name.

Predictably, that is a diversion that works. “Oh please!” Grantaire grins. “The last one no longer embarrasses Enj, he’s heard it too many times.”

Jehan smiles, picks up the notepad and looks at the empty lines. They  _have_ written about him. As soon as they got home that evening, and then again when they couldn’t sleep that night and again when they woke up that morning. It hasn’t helped. Montparnasse stays in their memory. Sharp, dark, brilliant and beautiful and so mixed up with the shine of stolen treasure and the rush of sudden bravery that they really do not know what would be worse. Trying to find him and running the risk of spoiling it all, or having to live with never knowing for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I use Grantaire as an excuse to drag up my love for Greek myths? Yes.
> 
> -Narcissus is the well-known picture of vanity and self-love, of course.  
> -Autolycus was a demigod, son of Hermes and the beautiful Chione, who inherited his father’s talent for thievery and trickery.   
> -Hylas was a companion to Hercules and is described as “beautiful as a girl” every damn time he appears. He ends up being kidnapped by a nymph who thinks he’s too pretty not to drag into her well.
> 
> …I hope you see why I had to name all three of them.


	2. Jehan doesn’t want to talk about Montparnasse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly and Grantaire's POV's.
> 
> Taking place between chapter 4 and 5, a little while apart.

Feuilly carefully keeps his eyes fixed on the messenger bag he’s fixing for Jehan. It’s another one of their thrift shop treasures. Whenever Jehan rescues something leather they usually bring it to him for advice on how to best fix it up. That’s nothing new. Neither is them sitting on the table swinging their feet while he works. Them trying to not-so-subtly interrogate him about his foster brother _is_ new however.

“I think it sounds like you had a good time,” Feuilly says, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. He’s never seen Jehan like this. There is something different about their fidgeting and they may be blushing slightly, but the shine in their eyes isn’t shy.

“We did,” they say happily. “Well, I did… I think he did too.”

“I’ve never known Montparnasse to put up with anything he didn’t enjoy,” Feuilly says. That isn’t strictly true, but for the purposes of this conversation it’s true enough. Besides, Feuilly isn’t at all certain what he should and shouldn’t be saying right now. Montparnasse values his privacy in a rather aggressive manner and Feuilly is certain that whatever is going on between him and Jehan, Montparnasse will not thank him for being too communicative. Especially since Jehan can be as persistent as they are passionate. Both a great deal.

“Do you see him often?”

Feuilly looks up at them, but Jehan is looking at the ceiling. How subtle. Feuilly hesitates. ‘Not as often as I’d like,’ he wants to say. ‘More often than a couple years ago,’ he could say.

“Every now and again, mostly when I fix something for his store,” he replies.

“Ah,” Jehan hums. They glance down at him. “The store is very pretty.”

Feuilly nods.

“Do you know the owner? Is she nice to work for?”

Jehan is probably hoping for an answer that will allow them to deduce how long Montparnasse has been working there. Feuilly isn’t going to volunteer anything like that.

“I’ve only met her a few times,” he says. “But I liked her then. You’ve never seen her then?”

“No,” Jehan says. “Maybe she isn’t in on Thursdays.”

“Hm,” Feuilly hums. “How many Thursdays are we talking?”

From the corner of his eye he can see Jehan’s cheeks colouring a shade darker.

“I don’t know,” they mumble. “Just a couple times.”

It didn’t sound like just a couple times. Feuilly says nothing and Jehan turns even redder.

“We’ve been texting a bit. Snapchat and stuff…”

Feuilly blinks, nods, and resolutely turns his attention back to the bag. He would like to know three things: what exactly is going on, since when Montparnasse has Snapchat, and exactly how willingly he let Jehan have his contact information. Preferably in that order.

 

♦♦♦

 

Jehan’s phone buzzes and they grab it just a bit too quickly. Grantaire grins.

“Is that the infamous Montparnasse?” he asks.

Jehan’s face burns red. “Yes,” they mumble, quickly pressing the conversation away again. Grantaire wasn’t even trying to sneak a peek, they’re being awfully protective.

“Tsk, that’s the third time tonight,” he points out teasingly. “He must be quite the conversationalist.”

For some reason that seems to throw Jehan a little. They give him an uncertain look and shake their head. Grantaire is careful to keep the frown he feels stirring inside him off his face. For as long as he’s known Jehan there has been no one they’ve been so…focussed on. Grantaire can’t yet tell what kind of focus it is, but it’s definitely there. Maybe Jehan doesn’t know either.

“I don’t think I know him well enough to properly talk to him yet…” they say after a short silence.

Feuilly seems very busy with his cooking all of a sudden.

“Not easy to get to know, then,” Grantaire hums, leaning back comfortably on his chair.

Jehan hesitates. “I… No,” they say, sounding conflicted.

“Hm,” Grantaire nods.

“He’s funny though…” Jehan says suddenly.

“Is he,” Grantaire says, glancing at Feuilly, who is smiling at the leeks he’s slicing.

“Yeah,” Jehan says and they’re suddenly smiling too. “In a really snarky way, you’d like him.”

Grantaire has several questions burning on the back of his tongue, but he decides now is not the time. “I really cannot have anyone competing with my sense of humour though,” he jokes. “Please inform him of that.”

Jehan laughs. “I’ll make sure to mention it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this to get a feel for how Jehan was dealing with all this, but because I am weak for both Feuilly and R it came out like this.


	3. Jehan is glad they didn’t ask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between chapter 7 and 8.

It has occurred to Jehan - just now, in a wondering absence of mind - that Montparnasse never just walks. He strides or saunters, either deliberately baring down on his destination or making it appear like has none. Jehan is enamoured with his footsteps, the fluid, graceful rhythm. They want to take his hand and hold it, lace their fingers together. He’s walking so close that they could. But that would be too deliberate. There is no pretence to hide behind this time. Nothing to excitedly pull Montparnasse towards to excuse them, no umbrella needing to be manoeuvred to shield the both of them.

Jehan’s fingers find the cuffs of their sweater instead, fidgeting idly. Montparnasse glances at them and his expression is that strange, neutral smile Jehan wishes they had learned to read by now.

“Decided where you want to go yet?” he asks.

Jehan smiles. “I had hoped you’d know a place,” they say. “You know it better around here…”

“I doubt you’ll want to go to the places I used to,” Montparnasse smirks.

He’s wrong. Jehan is sure that is exactly what they’d like right now. But…they’re just out for a walk. Just out for a drink. Because neither of them had anything better to do…

“Any place will do if it’s warm,” they say honestly. “I should have worn a different coat.”

Montparnasse is about to reply when there is a shout from across the street.

It’s a foreign-sounding word that Jehan doesn’t recognize, but it makes Montparnasse turn round abruptly, as if someone called his name.

Jehan turns as well.

Montparnasse is staring at someone who has just stepped away from a small cluster of people standing outside an open door. The man acts as if he knows Montparnasse and Montparnasse acknowledges him, but – there’s no mistaking that – _very_ reluctantly.

“Parnasse?” Jehan says uncertainly.

Montparnasse doesn’t even look at them. Instead he makes a sharp movement with his head and mutters tensely: “Sorry. Give me a minute.”

His saunter turn to a stride and he paces across the street, greeting the man with a strange strain in his shoulders that Jehan has never seen before. Jehan watches him go, but suddenly the man looks in their direction and they instinctually drop their gaze. That was _not_ a pleasant look.

Jehan turns away a little, but they keep watching from the corner of their eyes. Montparnasse is walking around the man as he greets him, effectively forcing him to turn his back on Jehan.

Jehan can’t hear what they’re saying, but Montparnasse’s expression is strangely sharp. With a slight hitch in their breath Jehan realizes that their heart is beating just a bit faster. They stay where they are, waiting. Montparnasse has dropped the odd comment about the sort of people he used to hang around with, but that had all sounded decidedly past tense. Feuilly, after some gentle questioning, had assured Jehan it _was_ past tense. Or at least as far as he knew. Jehan had tried to find out from Éponine, but Marius’ friend was very good at evading questions.

Perhaps that’s what this is about, Jehan thinks, biting their lip. The past. Whatever it is, Montparnasse is not happy with it. The man is older than him, but right now he doesn’t look it. Montparnasse shakes his head curtly and when the man speaks again he cuts him off. Finally the man shrugs and Montparnasse relaxes just a little. Jehan expects him to return, but he doesn’t. He dallies until the man has re-joined his companions and they have all gone back inside, the door still open.

Now Montparnasse crosses the street back towards Jehan and he moves so swiftly that Jehan takes the hint and falls in step beside him immediately.

“Sorry about that.” Montparnasse doesn’t look at them, and Jehan wants to ask.

 _Who was that? What was that about?_ The words burn on the back of their tongue. But they don’t ask, instead they smile at Montparnasse and say: “Know where we can get anything good to eat?”

Montparnasse hums. “Good, debatable. Decent, yes.”

He sounds like his usual self, but Jehan sees him glance back. It is barely noticeable, but they do notice. There must be nothing to see though, because Montparnasse relaxes visibly and Jehan can feel his attention shift until it’s once again focussed nearly exclusively on them. They can actually feel it happen and the slightest hint of a blush creeps up from their neck towards their face. If only they had the nerve— If only they were _sure_ —

“Well then,” Montparnasse says, slowing his pace to a saunter once more. “How’s your sweet tooth?”

Jehan smiles. “Insatiable, or so I’ve been told.”

That earns them a smirk. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cut this scene from the main story because of pacing, but I still liked it so I decided to write it from Jehan's POV instead.


	4. Grantaire has no right to talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between chapter 7 and 8.
> 
> (I should really space these out better, but here we are.)

“R, what am I going to do…”

Grantaire is struggling with a misbehaving set of code on his computer and he still sounds a little absent-minded when he asks:

“About what?”

Jehan shuts their mouth again. Grantaire is busy. They didn’t mean to whine at him.

Grantaire looks up from his screen though, grey eyes fixed enquiringly on their face. “About what?” he repeats.

They look away, staring at their drawn-up knees instead. “About Parnasse.” The times that they were still trying to pretend they weren’t all tangled up in feelings for Montparnasse are long gone. Grantaire knows. Feuilly knows. Jehan is pretty sure Courfeyrac knows, only he’s being polite about it. The same goes for Éponine.

Surprisingly, Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even make one of his wide variety of humming noises.

Eventually Jehan looks up at him. Their confusion at the silence overruling their embarrassment.

Grantaire was clearly counting on that. “Do you _want_ to do something about it?” he asks, his tone almost neutral, but not quite.

“Yes?” they bristle slightly. “I mean I would, if I knew _what_.”

Grantaire puts his laptop aside and comes to sit on the couch with them. “Well…” he begins, only a little cautious. “He likes you, a _lot_. That’s for certain.”

Jehan feels a burst of flutters in their midriff at that, but they don’t want to indulge it. “Does he though?” they protest. “I mean, sometimes I think he does. But then he just...” They open and close their mouth in frustration. “Like, he makes these jokes, but then he never does anything.” They bite their lip.

“…you don’t do anything either,” Grantaire says. The traitor.

“What if he doesn’t want me to.” That sounded terribly despondent. Jehan swallows and tries to drag a little reason into the mess of feelings. “I’ve never heard him talk about anyone he’s ever dated…” they say.

Jehan did try to ask Éponine, but she avoided that question vehemently. Feuilly never seemed very comfortable talking about Montparnasse. So Jehan stopped trying, even though he always seemed pleased to hear _them_ talk about him.

“He seems like a pretty private person,” Grantaire says.

“Yeah…” Jehan agrees dejectedly. “Maybe he’s… I don’t know.” They could just ask him. Or actually ask him out. But if that’s not what Montparnasse wants it might scare him off completely. Taking it slow is wiser. Probably. Maybe.

“Look, I know it’s no use guessing people’s feelings,” Grantaire says cautiously. “But the guy looks downright resentful when anyone else touches you.”

Jehan can’t quite hide the blush they feel heating up their cheeks. “He does?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire snorts. “He’s not that subtle.”

The flutters have risen into Jehan’s chest now, but they’re mixed with too much frustration to feel good. Why don’t _they_ ever see any of that then?

“You guys talk all the time, too,” Grantaire points out.

“You mean I’m always texting him,” Jehan says unhappily.

Grantaire leans forward, resting his arms on Jehan’s knees. “You’re texting each other.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think I’m annoying,” Jehan mutters.

“Stop that,” Grantaire reproaches them softly, reaching out to prod their shoulder.

“I know, I know,” Jehan says, taking in a deep breath. They shouldn’t do this. They’ll think themself in a fret.

“Honestly,” Grantaire says. “I think that if you were annoying Montparnasse, he’d just tell you to fuck off. He doesn’t seem like the type to put up with someone just because.” He smirks. “Tell you what, he’s putting up with _us_ for your sake, that’s for damn sure.”

Jehan bites their lip. That’s another thing… “R… Do you like him?” they ask. “Not just cause you know I do.”

Grantaire’s expression softens. “Yeah, I like him,” he says and that somehow makes the flutters both far worse and far less uncomfortable.

Jehan rocks forward resting their arms on top of Grantaire and draping them around his shoulders as far as they can reach and Grantaire leans against them affectionately.

“You never do anything by halves, do you,” he hums fondly.

“Shut up,” Jehan mutters and they hide their face against his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan is not nearly as deeply in denial as Parnasse, they are a lot less sure of themself though.


	5. Enjolras doesn’t understand this at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Enjolras having a chat.  
> Takes place somewhere after chapter 11.

"Grantaire."

It’s not unusual for Enjolras to break a silence with a sudden earnest exclamation. Not at all in fact. But Grantaire is well acquainted with this tone of voice. It used to be the precursor to a conflict, but those days are luckily behind them. Now he has the luxury of just looking up at where Enjolras is stretched out on the opposite end of the couch, his legs tangled with Grantaire’s and giving him a questioning glance.

“Yes?”

Enjolras is frowning slightly, but Grantaire can tell it’s not directed at him. “Do you like Montparnasse?” He gives Grantaire one of his penetrating looks. “Actually like him.”

“Actually,” Grantaire says and Enjolras is all attention. “Yeah, I do.”

Enjolras’ expression veers towards frustration, but he doesn’t argue. Instead he shuts his mouth and gives Grantaire a conflicted look.

“ _You_ don’t have to like him,” Grantaire says, putting a hand on Enjolras’ foot.

Enjolras flinches slightly, but Grantaire is careful not to tickle him. He’s learned his lesson, Enjolras has accidentally kicked him more than once.

“I’m just—” Enjolras shakes his head. “Jehan is genuinely gone over him.”

“Head over heels,” Grantaire says fondly. He’s never seen Jehan like this. And they’re so happy. So incredibly happy.

Enjolras looks far from happy though. He looks _vexed_. In a way only he can command. “I just, I want to like him, if only for their sake but—” He searches for words. “He’s _unpleasant_.”

Grantaire represses a smile. Enjolras sounds like a disapproving aunt. “He’s got a bit of a mouth on him, yeah,” he replies.

“You mean he’s loud,” Enjolras says pointedly.

“Hm,” Grantaire hums.

“And blunt.”

“He can be, yeah,” Grantaire says, looking at his beautiful, indignant boyfriend and saying nothing else.

"When he's not staring people down or giving elaborate speeches you mean," Enjolras sniffs.

Grantaire glances away. "He does do that at times, I guess."

Enjolras shifts positions and Grantaire does the same, so they’re sitting side by side in a slightly more normal configuration.

"Feuilly mentioned he _used_ to get in trouble with the police,” Enjolras says. “A lot.”

"Bit of a problem with authority, hm?" Grantaire hums, putting an arm up on the back of the couch for Enjolras to lean against.

"Problem with keeping his hands off other people's property more like," Enjolras says disapprovingly.

Grantaire keeps quiet.

"Well," Enjolras sighs. “Jehan must see something more in him, whatever it is.”

"Or they look at the same thing differently," Grantaire says, his eyes diplomatically turned towards the ceiling.

Enjolras looks at him, expecting an explanation, but Grantaire just starts playing with a lock of his hair. Enjolras sighs again and slumps against Grantaire, who immediately slides his whole hand into Enjolras’ hair to gently scratch his scalp. Enjolras closes his eyes for a moment, but then they snap open again.

"You know what bothers me the most,” he says sharply. “I don't get what he wants with Jehan. It's obvious they don't share their values."

Once again Grantaire opts for a nondescript hum by way of an answer.

"And he is smart," Enjolras grits. "I can tell he is. He could have something positive to contribute if he wanted to, but he clearly _doesn't_ want to, so why the hell would he want to be with Jehan?"

"No," Grantaire says and he forgets to be blasé about it. It’s a lot harder to be vague when the most obvious comparison is suddenly with himself. "I definitely get that part."

Enjolras looks at him and judging from the discomfort on his face the change in tone didn’t escape him. Grantaire nudges his head against Enjolras’ in an effort to break the tension.

"I wouldn't worry too much about Jehan," he says jokingly. "They can hold their own."

"Obviously," Enjolras sighs, turning further into Grantaire’s arms.

"And if Parnasse does hurt them, Bahorel and me will break his legs or something."

Enjolras opens his mouth, but Grantaire continues quickly:

"Provided we can get to him before Chetta does."

Enjolras snorts in spite of himself.

"I don't think he will though," Grantaire says softly. "Not deliberately at least..." If he’s got _anything_ right about Montparnasse, that would be the absolute last thing he’d want to do.

There is another silence, until Enjolras turns and slightly rest his head against Grantaire's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says with a smiling grimace. "I'm ruining date night, aren't I..."

Grantaire looks at him, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Is that what we're calling it now?" he asks, small sparks of contentment dancing in his chest.

"Well that is what it is, mostly," Enjolras says measuredly. "I'd use a more fitting term if there was one, but-"

"Intimate get-together," Grantaire interrupts, not bothering to keep his expression in check.

Enjolras gives him a look. "That-"

"Shared alone-time,” he cuts in again.

Enjolras huffs. "Would y-"

"Hangout with hugs."

"Now _you're_ ruining date night," Enjolras scowls. Except he’s not really scowling and Grantaire is grinning wide enough for them both.


	6. Montparnasse wasn’t afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of backstory for Montparnasse. In particular, the story he told Jehan in chapter 14 of 16 Lies and Counting, the reason he ‘switched careers’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure if this chapter warrants an M rating for violence, but it certainly comes with content warnings: criminal activity, physical violence, injury, anxiety, anger, parental abuse.
> 
> We know it ends well, of course, but it’s a bad time. Please don’t read it if stuff like this brings you down <3
> 
> Takes place nearly 3 years prior to 16 Lies and Counting, Montparnasse is just 20, Éponine is 17.

Montparnasse stares at the cars in the driveway. There’s two of them. Big and expensive, to match the house. No surprises there. Except they _shouldn’t be there_.

“Thénardier,” he hisses. “The fuck?”

Thénardier turns around, gives him an annoyed look and gestures for him to hurry up. Éponine is standing behind him with her head down. Montparnasse hurries to the cover of the rear entrance of the house, but when Thénardier points to the door indicating for him to pick the locks, he sharply shakes his head.

“The owners are _home_?” he snarls. His voice is barely above a whisper, but there is fury in it. This is moronic.

“They better be,” Thénardier sneers. “Unless you can crack safes too now.”

Montparnasse’s eyes narrow in disgust. “I don’t do bloody home invasions,” he spits.

Thénardier stares at him, eyes hard as glass. “You’ll do what I tell you to.”

Like hell he will. Jobs like these should be quick. In and out without being seen or heard. Montparnasse hasn’t been arrested since he was seventeen and he’s not planning on changing that anytime soon. He grabs Éponine by the arm and pulls her towards him, away from her father.

“We’re getting the fuck out of here,” he growls. If Thénardier wants to beat information out of people, he can do it on his own.

Éponine makes a frantic noise. Montparnasse doesn’t listen.

He shouldn’t have turned his back on Thénardier.

The blow to the back of his skull makes lights flash in front of his eyes. His legs give out and he feels the sharp sting of the rough tiles as his knees collides with them. He doubles over. There is a half-swallowed cry from Éponine, followed by a sudden shock that knocks all the air out of his chest. A cold hand that isn’t his own clamps over his mouth, stifling his cry of pain.

“Get him the fuck out of here,” Thénardier orders his daughter. “ _Useless_ \- You get back here in exactly twenty minutes.”

Montparnasse knows Thénardier is talking about him, but he barely registers what. Red-hot pain is screaming in the dark inside his head and his arms and legs have cramped towards his ribcage. He’s sure he’s trying to move them, but he can’t.

“Parnasse, come,” Éponine breathes beside him. The hand on his mouth is hers. She has removed it now and is trying to lift him to his feet.

Montparnasse clenches his teeth against the groaning pain in his body. Thénardier _stomped_ on him. His chest feels like it’s tearing on the inside. Breathing hurts so much it makes his vision blur. “ _Bastard_ —” he gulps, but Éponine is dragging him away as silently and as quickly as she can.

Only when the car door closes beside him does Montparnasse realize Éponine actually managed to get him the two blocks away to where they parked Thénardier’s van. The other door opens and Éponine slides into the driver’s seat. The interior light of the van is broken so Montparnasse can’t see her face properly, but he can hear her breath hitch. His own breathing is shallow and even then it makes him shudder. The back of his head stings something awful. He tries to reach up with his right arm, but his muscles scream as they pull on his ribs and he doubles over in pain, knocking against the dashboard.

“Parnasse?” Éponine whimpers beside him.

“Fine,” he grits. He tries to will his body into relaxing. One of his ribs must be cracked. “Am I bleeding?” he asks, as calmly as possible.

He bows his head and Éponine leans towards him, fingers nervously touching the back of his head. She presses down and Montparnasse winces, sucking air in through his teeth.

“No,” she rasps.

“Good,” he mutters. His head feels heavy and he’s not sure if it’s the dark that’s keeping him from seeing properly, but if he’s not bleeding and he wasn’t unconscious it can’t be too bad. He’s slumped awkwardly in his seat, sitting up hurts too much and he can’t position his arms right to lean on them. It’s taking damn near all of his concentration to keep breathing through the pain.

“Twenty minutes!” Éponine bursts out suddenly. Her voice is shrill and shaky.

“Ponine,” Montparnasse groans.

“No!” she cries. “I’ll give him his fucking twenty minutes!”

She reaches past Montparnasse and tears open the glovebox. As she leans forward, the vague light of the streetlights falls on her face and Montparnasse sees it’s wet from tears. She’s not crying now though, her face is screwed up with rage.

Montparnasse makes an effort to raise his head. Éponine is holding an old cell phone. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m calling the fucking police,” Éponine declares, voice rough with conviction.

“ _Are you out of your mind_ ,” Montparnasse hisses and he gags when the pain makes him choke on his words.

“Look what he did to you!” Éponine bursts out. “Look what he was going to _make_ us do.” Her voice is starting to shake again. “Gav already picks locks for fun… I’m not going to- Dad can’t—” She swallows and her dark eyes are fixed on Montparnasse from across the shadowy car with painful intensity. “I want him gone.”

Montparnasse stares back at her. He feels broken. There is too much pain right now to think clearly. But behind the pain…he is fucking pissed. Thénardier is a lowlife. In every sense of the word. There’s honour among thieves, but none in Thénardier. He looks at Éponine. She looks young with her eyes so wide. Montparnasse grimaces. She _is_ young. She’s still in school for fuck’s sake.

“Give me the phone,” he orders.

“ _No_ ,” she snaps. “I don’t care I—”

“If they arrest your father, they’ll talk to you too,” Montparnasse growls, holding out his left hand.

Éponine shuts her mouth. For a moment terror flashes on her face and then it hardens again. She presses the phone into his hand. “Go on then.”

Montparnasse squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Thénardier probably has enough dirt on him to drag him down with him. Then again, considering what Thénardier has had a hand in over the years the police might not care. Risk assessment. Montparnasse always has been rather good at that. He weighs the phone in his hand. Claquesous and Babet have never dealt with Thénardier without his intervention. Gueulemer has, but only indirectly through the foundry. He takes in a breath that is a little too deep and swears at the pain tearing into his chest. Fuck Thénardier.

He dials 112 and gives Éponine one last questioning look. She meets his eyes with a cold stare.

“One-one-two emergency services, are you in need of police, an ambulance or the fire department?”

“I just drove past a house in the neighbourhood and I think someone was breaking in.” Montparnasse’s voice doesn’t sound as strained as he thought it would.

“I will put you through to the police department, please stay on the line.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Montparnasse keeps it short and ends the call as soon as he can, despite the request to stay on the line while the police is on their way. They’ll find out soon enough this wasn’t a neighbour calling, but it doesn’t matter. Montparnasse and Éponine both know the response time here. They should be in time to catch Thénardier red-handed, hopefully in the metaphorical sense only. As soon as Montparnasse ends the call, Éponine starts the car. Montparnasse takes the phone apart as she drives away. She can get rid of that later.

“You need to go to a doctor,” Éponine says, eyes fixed on the road.

“I fucking don’t,” Montparnasse groans. “Rest and painkillers, there, medical advice sorted.”

Éponine’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “What if you—”

“Is your mother home?” Montparnasse interrupts her.

There’s a short silence. “Yes,” Éponine whispers.

“What will you tell her?” he demands, carefully digging his phone out of his right pocket with his left hand. He waits for it to turn on and glances at his friend.

“I’ll tell her I heard the sirens while I was dragging you to the car,” Éponine replies, sounding almost calm, but nothing like herself.

“You think she’ll take that well?” Montparnasse mutters, starting a text to Claquesous and – thinking the better of it – switching to Gueulemer instead.

“She’ll tell me dad is a screw-up,” Éponine says blankly. “And then she’ll tell me he’ll give me a cuff on the ear for making him walk home.”

Montparnasse hums. “Police won’t call her until morning,” he says.

“Yeah,” Éponine says, voice sinking to nearly a whisper. “If they get him.”

He doesn’t answer that. If they _don’t_ get him Thénardier will be coming home livid. But if his wife is home that shouldn’t be too much of a problem. She doesn’t let her husband hit her daughters and the boys know how to get out of sight. What she _will_ do, though, is drag them to the police station, parade them around to gain pity.

“I’ll make sure we leave for school early,” Éponine says, clearly thinking along the same lines.

“Come over to mine after,” Montparnasse says.

Instead of answering that, Éponine lets out an unsteady breath and says in a flat voice: “They’re going to bring Maman in too, won’t they?”

“Probably,” Montparnasse agrees. His head aches, but he’s less dizzy now. Every breath he takes and every jolt of the van still rips through his chest like claws, but it’s remarkable how quickly pain becomes monotonous.

“How long before they send social services?” Éponine ask in the same tone of voice.

“If they follow the rules,” Montparnasse sighs. “As soon as they send someone to pick up your mother.”

Éponine nods silently.

Montparnasse’s phone lights up. “Gueul’s awake,” he tells Éponine.

“Okay,” she says, still in that level, numb voice.

Montparnasse fights the thumping in his head and tries to think of something to say. Éponine didn’t just give up her father, she gave up her whole life. The life she’s known up until now anyway. “Ponine…” he mutters. “They won’t want to split you guys up.”

The leather cover on the steering wheel creaks under Éponine’s grip.

“If you…” A thought occurs to him that gives at least a little light, even if it mortifies him. “I can contact my foster parents.”

“No,” Éponine says softly. “You don’t have to—” She swallows. “There was this thing in the paper about someone my age being his sister’s legal guardian… That’s what I want.”

“You’re seventeen…” Montparnasse begins. Éponine has _four_ siblings. And Judoc has only just turned seven.

“I don’t care,” Éponine bites. “I can prove I’ve taken care of them pretty much on my own since I was fourteen! If they think they’re taking them from me they can go to hell!”

“Yeah, don’t tell them that,” Montparnasse grimaces. Instead of heavy his head is starting to feel light. Probably because he isn’t breathing deep enough. “I can give you Feuilly’s number. He knows how to work _with_ the system.” Montparnasse never really had the patience for that. He hasn’t spoken to Feuilly in a long time, but unlike Montparnasse Feuilly never seems to change phone numbers.

“No,” Éponine says again and this time she squares her shoulders. “I can do this. I know I can. I’ll work with them. So will Zelma, and the boys too when I tell them to. They won’t split us up. I won’t let them.”

Montparnasse believes her. He also believes he’s going to pass out if he doesn’t begin taking proper breaths. Slowly he leans back in his seat and takes in as much air as he can bear to. “Okay,” he says, exhaling with his eyes screwed shut. “Whatever you do need, tell me.”

“You look fucked,” Éponine says after half a beat silence.

“Thanks,” he grunts. He’s pretty sure that by the time the adrenaline in his system wears off, he won’t be talking anymore. With any luck Éponine will be gone by then.

“Will Gueul know what to do?” Éponine asks, nervousness returning to her for a moment.

“Yes,” Montparnasse answers flatly. “Like I said, rest and painkillers.” He manages a weak grin. “If your dad had done any real damage I’d have passed out by now.”

Éponine makes a strained sound. “You pass out on me and I’ll—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Montparnasse hums and he closes his eyes.

Gueulemer is waiting for them outside when they arrive at their house. He throws away his cigarette as soon as Éponine pulls up and walks round to the passenger side of the van without a word. He opens the door, looks Montparnasse up and down and grabs him under his arms.

Montparnasse mutters choked curses under his breath while Gueulemer lifts him out of the car like he doesn’t weigh a thing. His friend shoulders him for support and then bows his head, glancing into the van to look at Éponine. “You alright?” he asks. His deep voice is oddly calm and quiet.

“Yes,” she says, sounding very far from alright. “Do you—?”

“I’ll take care of him,” Gueulemer says bluntly. “Get yourself home.”

“Yes,” Éponine repeats. Her eyes dart from Gueulemer to Montparnasse and back again. “Goodnight…”

“Night,” Gueulemer hums and before slamming the door he adds: “My phone’s staying on.”

Montparnasse doesn’t have energy left to speak. Éponine drives off and Gueulemer helps him through the front door.

“You’re not going to make it up the stairs,” Gueulemer says casually, when he has pulled the door shut behind them.

“Why don’t we try,” Montparnasse breathes. “Have a laugh.”

Instead of replying Gueulemer lifts him off his feet and starts to slowly climb the stairs.

As he does, Montparnasse’s own weight and the pressure of Gueulmer’s arms compress his ribcage and he swears to keep himself from screaming. “ _Motherfucker_.” At this point he almost wishes he’d black out.

“Was it Thénardier?” Gueulemer hasn’t stopped walking and his face is blank, but there is an edge to his voice that Montparnasse knows all too well.

“Storytime can wait,” he grunts.

“Is he—”

“ _Gueul_.”

Gueulemer shuts his mouth. His fingers dig into Montparnasse’s shoulder and leg in a way they didn’t a moment ago.

They’ve reached Montparnasse’s floor and Gueulemer carefully puts him back on his feet. Montparnasse digs his keys out of his pocket and holds them out for Gueulemer, leaning back against the wall beside the door. “Éponine called the cops on him,” he mutters.

Gueulemer freezes, key half turned round in the lock. “Did they get him?” he asks.

“I fucking hope so,” Montparnasse grits.

Gueulemer makes a nondescript sound and hastily opens the door. Montparnasse forces his legs to carry him inside before Gueulemer can offer to help him. This night is going to end as badly as it began, better get it over with. Even if this is probably one of those things that _won’t_ be better in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff like this isn’t exactly my forte. I only wrote it because I felt like I couldn’t get Montparnasse’s characterization right if I didn’t know exactly what happened and since I put the effort in, I wanted to upload it anyway.   
> If you decided to read it, I hope it wasn’t too jarring and I promise the next part will be more lighthearted!


	7. Jehan can pick their own clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan's POV, takes place between chapter 15 and 16, featuring Bahorel and Courfeyrac.

Whenever Bahorel visits, Jehan is painfully reminded of how small their room is. On the plus side, it feels like they’re having an entire party over, just because he’s there.

“So,” Bahorel grins, sitting backwards on Jehan’s desk chair and making it squeak dangerously. “We haven’t done any proper soul-baring for _ages_. Tell me everything.”

Jehan laughs, pulling their legs up under them to sit cross-legged on their bed. “I had a pretty good mark on a test last week,” they say innocently.

Bahorel wrinkles his nose at them and they grin. “Alright, I have _some_ news,” they say, excitement bubbling up in their midriff as soon as they think of it again.

Their friend’s bearded face lights up and Jehan enjoys the eager anticipation on his face.

“Parnasse invited me to come see his friends perform, and meet them afterwards.”

Bahorel makes one of the abrupt, energetic movements that have become a staple of his nonverbal vocabulary and lets out a triumphant cry. Underneath him the chair squeaks indignantly. “Well _finally_!” he exclaims. “He sure took his sweet time!”

“It’s a big deal for him,” Jehan says, smiling through their sincerity. “I always knew he needed time.”

“Too good for this world,” Bahorel says fondly, shaking his head. His grin widens. “So, you’re finally going to find out _what_ the infamous artistic friends get up to. You said there was a performance?”

“Yes,” Jehan say happily. “It sounds absolutely wonderful.” They love dancing and they adore live music and from what they’ve been able to find out, Parnasse’s friends – Claquesous and Babet, they remind themself, Gueulemer was the one that _didn’t_ perform – make a proper show of it. “It’s in a club downtown.”

“Which one?” Bahorel asks, interested. If it’s any place good he’ll have heard of it.

Jehan racks their brain but the name has slipped their mind for a moment. “Ah, I don’t remember,”  they say. “But Parnasse called it a Bal Masqué, and I _know_ I will love it.”

There’s very little, to Jehan’s knowledge at least, that can shock Bahorel. Which is why the stunned expression on his face is particularly surprising.

“ _What_ ,” he gulps, staring at Jehan. “Did you say Bal Masqué?”

“Yes?” Jehan says, laughing uncertainly. “Only Parnasse said it isn’t actually a masked ball, because I would have—”

“Your boyfriend’s friends are part of the Bal Masqué,” Bahorel interrupts loudly, and if Jehan didn’t know him so well they might have thought he sounded angry.

“I don’t know,” Jehan says, looking at him in wonder. “Parnasse just asked me if I wanted to come see his friends give a show.”

“And that show is the Bal Masqué?” Bahorel asks. He has reigned his voice back in, but there is an odd intensity to the expression on his face.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jehan says, starting to frown. They know it does very little good to question Bahorel’s behaviour. They also know their own behaviour is often equally incomprehensible and that they are in no position to throw stones. But they really would like to know what got him so rattled. “Baz, what’s going on?”

But Bahorel clearly isn’t listening, instead he gives a push with his legs, rolling the desk chair all the way towards Jehan’s bed, so he can stare down at them with the full force of his dark eyes.

“Jehan, tell me. And this is very important. What are you wearing?”

Jehan blinks up at him. “To the show?”

“To the _Bal Masqué_ ,” Bahorel says with so much grave emphasis that Jehan almost laughs.

“I don’t know,” they say. “We’re going to dance. It’ll be hot. But we’ll also be outside really late so… I was thinking my cut-off dungarees? Maybe with stockings?”

Bahorel doesn’t answer that. Instead he gives them a long, hard look, and then – without taking his eyes off them – he reaches for his back pocket and takes out his phone.

Jehan narrows their eyes slowly. “What are you doing?” they demand.

“Calling Courfeyrac,” he deadpans, tapping the contact.

“What, why?” Jehan splutters. “Leave Courf alone! He’s with Combeferre!”

“I bet he is,” Bahorel says, wholly unconcerned. “But, _wallai_ , Jehan, you are _not_ going to a Bal Masqué in dungarees. I’ve only been once, but—” He throws his free hand up in wordless emotional frustration. “You are not wasting an experience like that on _demin_.”

“Then what _am_ I supposed to wear,” Jehan huffs. If Bahorel thinks he can get them into something uncomfortable they can think again. They have never been dancing with Montparnasse and they plan to sweep him off his feet.

“That’s what we need Courf for,” he says, letting his phone ring in his hand. “He needs to come over with his…” He gestures vaguely with his other hand. “—his Marry Poppins bag of make-up and Fashion. Besides, you two are nearly the same size.”

“We are not,” Jehan protests. “And I’m not wearing Courf’s clothes.”

“Jehan—” Bahorel begins with the expression of a man who is not going to give up his point, but at that moment Courfeyrac picks up. Jehan can just hear the slightly distracted accent to his voice. He is _definitely_ still with Combeferre.

It only takes Bahorel saying the words “Jehan”, “Bal Masqué” and “dungarees” to get his attention however and barely an hour later Jehan leaning stubbornly against their closet door and arguing with _both_ of them.

“Listen,” Courfeyrac pleads. “I only brought accessories. No clothes. You can wear your own clothes!”

“Just…let us _help_ ,” Bahorel says emphatically.

Jehan scowls. “Parnasse said there wasn’t any dress code. And I can wear whatever the hell I want.”

“Yes!” Courfeyrac says. “Yes you can! And you will! Just…”

“ _Let us help_ ,” Bahorel begs.

Jehan crosses their arms, but they can’t quite fight the grin in the corner of their mouth. Their friends’ desperation is kind of comical at this point.

“Fine,” they say. “ _Maybe_. What did you have in mind?”

Bahorel and Courfeyrac let out a breath of relief.

“Just let me dig through your closet a bit,” Courfeyrac says, spirits already rising again. “I mean, Jehan, you know you look cute in everything. But for a Bal Masqué…”

“You need something stunning,” Bahorel says. “Something special.”

“I’ll do your make-up for you,” Courfeyrac offers eagerly. He’s much better at make-up than Jehan. They’ve never really gotten the hang of it and always spent more time on their hair instead.

Jehan smiles. It _would_ be fun to give Montparnasse a bit of a surprise… They glance at Bahorel. “If there isn’t a dress code…what suits a Bal Masqué?”

Bahorel lets his face relax into a grin. “Well,” he says. “First of all, at least in _your_ case…glitter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parnasse won't know what hit him <3
> 
> (If I've got it right "wallai" is the simplified African-Arabic version of "by god", but please correct me if I misused it!)


End file.
